{"product_id":"stir-isbn-9781101983638","title":"Stir","description":"\u003cb\u003eA national bestseller and winner of a Living Now Book Award, \u003ci\u003eStir \u003c\/i\u003eis an exquisite memoir about how food connects us to ourselves, our lives, and each other.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eAt 28, Jessica Fechtor was happily immersed in graduate school and her young marriage, and thinking about starting a family. Then one day, she went for a run and an aneurysm burst in her brain. She nearly died. She lost her sense of smell, the sight in her left eye, and was forced to the sidelines of the life she loved.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJessica’s journey to recovery began in the kitchen as soon as she was able to stand at the stovetop and stir. There, she drew strength from the restorative power of cooking and baking. Written with intelligence, humor, and warmth, \u003ci\u003eStir \u003c\/i\u003eis a heartfelt examination of what it means to nourish and be nourished. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWoven throughout the narrative are 27 recipes for dishes that comfort and delight. For readers of M.F.K.Fisher, Molly Wizenberg, and Tamar Adler, as well as Oliver Sacks, Jill Bolte Taylor, and Susannah Cahalan, \u003ci\u003eStir \u003c\/i\u003eis sure to inspire, and send you straight to the kitchen.“Pairing food with the nightmare of surviving a brain aneurysm \u003ci\u003eshouldn't\u003c\/i\u003e work—but under Jessica Fechtor's wise and wonderful narration, the pairing not only works, it shines.\"—\u003cb\u003eSusannah Cahalan\u003c\/b\u003e, author of the #1\u003ci\u003e New York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestseller \u003ci\u003eBrain on Fire\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Jessica Fechtor writes with remarkable lucidity, courage, and grace about the darkest and brightest moments a person can know. \u003ci\u003eStir \u003c\/i\u003ewill feed you, even after the last page is turned.\"—\u003cb\u003eMolly Wizenberg\u003c\/b\u003e, creator of Orangette and author of the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestseller \u003ci\u003eA Homemade Life \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Utterly captivating, engrossing, un-put-down-ably, terrifyingly magnificent. In a world filled with dross, \u003ci\u003eStir \u003c\/i\u003eis breathtaking.”—\u003cb\u003eElissa Altman\u003c\/b\u003e, author of \u003ci\u003ePoor Man’s Feast\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Written with the flare of a novelist and the precision of an academic, \u003ci\u003eStir\u003c\/i\u003e is a brave, beautiful narrative of illness and recovery. But it is not only that. It is a meditation on food and the kitchen, what it means to cook, and how the choices we make at the table can define who we are – and who we want to be.”—\u003cb\u003eMolly Birnbaum\u003c\/b\u003e, author of \u003ci\u003eSeason to Taste\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Fechtor's gentle lyricism cannot hide her fierce determination not only to survive, but to flourish.\"—\u003cb\u003eLuisa Weiss\u003c\/b\u003e, creator of The Wednesday Chef and author of \u003ci\u003eMy Berlin Kitchen\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e“Stir\u003c\/i\u003e is a beautiful, sometimes sad, often heart-lifting story of putting back together what has fallen apart. It is a poignant reminder of how inexorably tied our hearts and minds are to our stomachs, and what a blessing that can be.”—\u003cb\u003eTamar Adler\u003c\/b\u003e, author of \u003ci\u003eAn Everlasting Meal\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e“Though \u003ci\u003eStir\u003c\/i\u003e winds us through Ms. Fechtor’s illness, its complications and ultimately her recovery, this book isn’t a tale of sickness and health. And though it is filled with inviting concoctions…it isn’t merely a book about food and how to make it. Rather, it’s a recipe for living a life of meaning and an homage to the people in her life who nourished her.”—\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eWall Street Journal\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e“An inspiring journey, with recipes. With a novelist’s touch, Fechtor chronicles her recovery from a brain aneurysm that hit her as a Harvard graduate student at 28, sending her life on a far different path than she had imagined.”—\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eSeattle Times\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e“Charmingly peppered with personal recipes, [STIR] thoroughly inspired readers and immersed them in Fechtor’s life against all odds.”—\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eElle\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e“Jessica Fechtor blends the story of her near-fatal brain aneurysm with recipes as if it's a natural combination. And for someone with her optimism and modesty, it is. A feel good memoir.”—\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eShelf Awareness\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e“Beautiful”—\u003cb\u003ePyschcentral.com\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e“With warmth, humor and clarity, she explains in Stir how cooking helped her to reclaim her life.”\u003ci\u003e—\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eColumbus Dispatch\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e“Reading the book, I was compelled to reach for a pen every few pages, to underline things I didn’t want to forget — things I had to remember.“\u003ci\u003e—\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Forward\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e“Fechtor writes beautifully and is a warm, gracious guide through her own landscape of illness. Fechtor skillfully combines the sequence of events, memories of her earlier life, and her adventures in the kitchen.”\u003ci\u003e—\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eJewish Week\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eJessica Fechtor\u003c\/b\u003e is the author of the bestselling memoir \u003ci\u003eStir: My Broken Brain and the Meals that Brought Me Home. \u003c\/i\u003eHer play, \u003ci\u003eBook of Hours\u003c\/i\u003e, was developed by The Ground Floor at Berkeley Rep, the Great Plains Theatre Commons, and was a finalist for the Eugene O’Neill National Playwrights Conference. Jessica’s essays have appeared in \u003ci\u003eThe Wall Street Journal, The Washington Post, \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eTablet. \u003c\/i\u003eShe earned a B.A. in music from Columbia University, and has completed master’s degrees and doctoral work in Jewish literature from Oxford and Harvard universities. She lives in San Francisco.I am on the floor.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy back is flat against the ground, and so are the soles of my feet, and my knees are up and swaying. Someone is holding my head at the temples. “Jessica, it’s Ilana.” She says it the Canadian way, with a flat first \u003ci\u003ea\u003c\/i\u003e. \u003ci\u003eLavish, lamb, Atlantic\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy knees are swaying.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI turn my head and vomit into her lap. The  hotel gym guy comes with orange Gatorade. He is tall and waxy with a bird face and dark hair that’s more thin than thinning. He wants to know if I’ve had any breakfast. “A banana,” I tell him, and he nods as though he suspected as much. He bends at the waist and wags the bottle over my face for me to take it. I vomit again. Ilana doesn’t flinch.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’m at a graduate student conference in Stowe, Vermont, a town wedged deep in the valley between the Green Mountains and the Worcester Range. I am twenty-eight years old. Ilana is a colleague. I’ve seen her at these conferences over the last couple of years, and we’ve shared meals, but that’s all. I’m grateful for the pad of her thigh.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI see my friend Or. We’d planned to run together along the country roads that morning, but a crack of thunder had sent us to the gym instead. He stands over me now in a tank top with a bandana tied low across his forehead. He looks like a pirate and says he’s going to call. The gym guy insists it’s not necessary, but Or calls.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAn ambulance is coming.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt’s August and the sky is dark from the storm. I don’t try to get up. I don’t even think to try—it will be years before I realize the oddness of that—and  no one offers to help me. Ilana is talking to me, and Or is talking to me, and Or and Ilana are talking to each other about me, and the girl who was on the treadmill next to mine is talking to someone, the gym guy maybe, about “what happened.” I can hear the spit moving around in her mouth as she speaks. She sounds breathless and scared and I want her to be quiet. Someone at the opening session the night before had mentioned that he was training as an EMT and they bring him in. He looks me in the eye, expressionless, then steps away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy knees are swaying.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’ve had migraines before. The pain feels similar, so I assume that’s what this is. I’ve never fainted, though, and it has never come on so fast. A flash migraine, then. \u003ci\u003eIs that a thing? \u003c\/i\u003eI can’t decide if I’m supposed to be scared.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOr is asking me whom he should call and I tell him my dad, no, Eli. I give him my husband’s number and watch him dial. My head hurts so badly, and I think that if I can relax my body, get really quiet, I can make it better. Ilana says, “She’s not talking anymore.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The paramedic arrives. He shines lights and asks if I remember the fall, and I do.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI was running on the treadmill, when I felt a painless click in my head. There was an odd trickling sensation along my skull like a rolling bead of sweat, but on the inside. Then the room went gray and the earth sucked me down. I knew I was about to faint. The red stop button seemed suddenly far away. I swiped at it, but there was no time to step off the machine. Someone says I hit my head on the way down, and I wonder if the belt was still moving when I fell. I can no longer sway my knees; the paramedic’s in the way, so I start rubbing his leg instead.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’m sorry,” I say, “I’m rubbing your leg.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“That’s all right. You keep rubbing.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe tells me to fold my arms across my chest, that they are going to strap me to a board and carry me to the ambulance. It’s very important, he says, to call out if I need to vomit so that they can flip me over in time. The thought of that, of hanging facedown in the air and vomiting, the thought of being dropped, is at this moment the most terrifying thing in the world.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I start this story here, on the floor of a conference center gym, because it now seems the most obvious place. But it wasn’t obvious to me then that a start had occurred at all. I thought my fall from the treadmill was a dot on a plotline already under way, the one about the literature student at  a conference who fainted, missed the morning’s events, got checked out, and returned, red faced and sheepish, in time for lunch. I didn’t know then that when I slipped from that moving belt, that dot had also slipped and become its own point A.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e What a click in my head, and a moving belt, and a headache that knocked me down might have to do with butter, and flour, and eggs at room temp, and hunger, and love, and a kitchen with some- thing to say, I couldn’t have known that day. How a detour could become its own path, I would never have believed.","brand":"Plume","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301270048997,"sku":"NP9781101983638","price":17.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781101983638.jpg?v=1767737344","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/stir-isbn-9781101983638","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}